I met a traveller from an antique

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold

Tell that its sculptor well those passions

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that

And on the pedestal, these words

My name is Ozymandias, King of

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and

Nothing beside remains. Round the

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”